


Always Follow a Hippie to a Second Location

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU: Derek likes to smile, Artist Derek, Derek Has Chest Hair, Derek has a manbun, Derek has long hair, Derek is a glassblower, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Hippie Derek, Human Derek, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Shot, just for feels and fun, who makes pipes of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to tell just how long his hair is but it’s night-black and shiny and soft-looking, little strands falling loose from the messy knot high on his head that Stiles feels strangely compelled to put his hands on, to grip tight, which is <em>ridiculous</em>. He’s never been into hippie guys or guys with long hair, but he’s thinking now he might need to reassess that life choice because <em>damn</em>, how much fun would it be to fuck that ass while tangling his hands in that hair like reins, pulling his head back and leaning forward to get closer to his moans….</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Follow a Hippie to a Second Location

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: ~~Never~~ Always Follow a Hippie to a Second Location, from 30 Rock, of course.
> 
> This is utterly self-indulgent fluff inspired by my FEELS about [Hoechlin's prince hair](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/tagged/long-hair-hoech), which happened to coincide with my discovery of [this guy](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/post/107946451137/lillithdv8-brock-ohurns-man-bun-xox-oh) on Instagram and well, I just NEEDED hippie manbun Derek. And really, let's be real, this is more Hoechlin than Derek.
> 
> Thank you for indulging my absurdity! XOXO
> 
> Oh, and a note on the rating - the sex is offscreen, but there are some explicit references...I think it's on the safer side of Mature, which I chose just to be safe. (My frame of reference for ratings is totally skewed by the all the porn I read/write/watch, tbh.)

~~~~It’s something out of a fairy tale, Stiles thinks, pulling into the small gravel parking lot next to the cabin that looks more like the home of a friendly witch or a hobbit, not a glassblowing studio that’s said to have the best pipes and bongs in the state. Scott and Kira are getting married in a couple days and Stiles is the best best man to ever best man, so he’s here to buy his brother-from-another-mother a wedding bong. Stiles has never been to a glassblowing studio before so he isn’t really sure what to expect, but it sure isn’t an asymmetrical wooden building nestled amongst a copse of tall trees with an actual babbling brook behind it that disappears deeper into the forest towards a larger, similarly-built house that’s partially obscured by trees.

Stiles parks the Jeep next to a minivan, the only other car in the small lot, and walks up the stone-lined path to the front door of the studio, trying to take it all in. There are flowers of every shape, color, and size around the strange little building, bright sprays bursting from flower boxes built for octagon-shaped windows and spilling forth from giant clay pots glazed with glowing purples and blues. There are glass pieces everywhere too: colorful spheres nestled in knee-high grass, long, thin stick-looking things that look like some kind of plant that Stiles’ doesn’t know the name of, big stone basins filled with cracked chunks and shreds of glass of every color, clearly scrap piles that have been repurposed into some kind of weird hippie “art.”

The door is open, and Stiles steps in, expecting the smell of patchouli and possibly a wizard, but instead is greeted with a wall of _hot_ , in actual heat form and in the oh-so-enticing man-shaped form. The heat is coming from two very large brick ovens, almost as tall as Stiles and beehive-shaped, side-hinged doors on the front hanging open. The hot man – good god, that is the sexiest back Stiles has ever seen, utterly _climbable_ – is standing in front of them, sticking a long metal rod into the bright, glowing heat. Stiles stops and stares, mesmerized.

His eyes rake over the thin white tank top the guy is wearing, clinging tight to his sculpted torso, a graceful V that opens wide into broad, rippling shoulders. He’s wearing shorts, tattered and faded cut-off jeans that hit just below his knees, hugging a truly spectacular ass. He’s also wearing Birkenstocks, which Stiles thinks has to be a safety hazard, standing right in front of furnaces that look like portals to hell, especially when he brings out the metal rod, the end of it dripping with molten glass. But the guy looks perfectly comfortable and at ease as he works, big hands steady on his tools, moving with confidence like he’s been doing this his whole life.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see that the inside of the studio is just as alive with color as the outside, gorgeous glass on display on curving, wave-like shelves built into the walls. There’s also a low, wooden bench, handmade by the looks of it, dividing the display area from the work area; there’s a family on the bench, a mom and dad and two young kids, watching as the guy explains what he’s doing.

Stiles can’t really focus on what he’s saying, even though his voice is like liquid sunshine, because his eyes are still hungrily drifting up and down the guy’s body, lingering on that ass, because _goddamn_ , it’s a perfect little bubble that he wants to _bite_ , his eyes finally wandering up to try and catch a glimpse of his face, which is still turned away from him.

It’s possible Stiles makes a noise, a snort or a scoff that’s maybe supposed to be derisive but sounds suspiciously appreciative, because this hot hippie fucker’s hair is _in a bun._

_An actual manbun._

It’s hard to tell just how long his hair is but it’s night-black and shiny and soft-looking, little strands falling loose from the messy knot high on his head that Stiles feels strangely compelled to put his hands on, to grip tight, which is _ridiculous_. He’s never been into hippie guys or guys with long hair, but he’s thinking now he might need to reassess that life choice because _damn_ , how much fun would it be to fuck that ass while tangling his hands in that hair like reins, pulling his head back and leaning forward to get closer to his moans….

And then the guy turns to look him, smiling, and with the heat of the studio and the flush of warmth that zips through him when they make eye contact, Stiles feels a little short of breath, can feel a single bead of sweat drip all the way down his spine, and _okay fine_ , maybe he makes another weird noise. But in his defense, that incredible bod is almost nothing in comparison to that face, and _that smile_ , which just might be the sweetest, friendliest smile Stiles has ever seen, even buried as it is amongst a wild black beard, dark and soft-looking like his hair. 

_Good god, he’s a hot Jesus._

Hot Jesus’ mouth is wide and pink, makes Stiles think of the words _luscious_ and _pillowy_ and _succulent_. His features are sharp but still somehow gentle, and his eyes, _his eyes_. Stiles isn’t close enough to see exactly what color they are, and they look like those kind of eyes that are a bunch of different colors, but he thinks they’re green, maybe kinda blue too, but either way they’re sparkling, bright and kind, a scatter of laugh lines at the corners. “Hey there, welcome,” Sexy Hippie Jesus says, still smiling, raising his heavy, unruly eyebrows at him. “Come on in, have a seat, if you like.”

Stiles snaps his mouth shut – shit, how long has he been gaping at this manbun’d perfection – and shuffles over to the bench, sitting at the far end from the family. The younger kid, a little blonde girl, looks over at Stiles, big blue eyes wide. “He’s making a witch ball,” she whispers, amazed. “To catch spirits.”

“Just the evil ones,” Hot Jesus chimes in, sitting on a bench in his work area amongst a mess of battered-looking tools and buckets. He meets Stiles’ gaze again and winks, which doesn’t do anything to help this everything-is-way-too-warm situation he’s dealing with. “It still lets the good spirits hang around.”

“How does the witch ball know to catch just the evil ones,” the older kid asks, suspicious.

“Excellent question,” Stiles says, finally able to speak. “I was wondering that myself.”

Sexy Hippie flashes him a grin and rests the metal bar across a rack on either side of his bench, letting it roll to a stop until it catches on the lip, giant glob of glass on the end so hot it’s still glowing red. He talks while he works, grabbing a bulky wooden ladle from a bucket of water and using it to shape the glass, water hissing and steam rising around his exquisite face, making the loose tendrils of his hair curl. “Because glass is magic,” he explains, hands working quickly. “It’s made with fire, tough as iron, but it’s still delicate and has to be handled with care. And it’s a mirror you can see through. _Magic_ ,” he adds with a dance of his expressive eyebrows, looking up at Stiles under long, fluttering lashes.

Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but the kids are eating it up, and the parents are smiling too, and _fuck_ , the guy is like, so unbearably adorable and sweet he might be made of actual rainbows and sunshine and unicorn fur.

His voice is just as soothing and mellow when he returns to explaining his craft. He uses the ladle-thingy to shape the glass into a sphere, spinning the rod with his big hand. “We’re not worried about this being a perfect circle. We’re just gonna let the glass become the shape it wants to be.”

Stiles _absolutely_ rolls his eyes at that, because _come on_. How is this guy for real? Fortunately, Hot Jesus doesn’t seem to notice, focused as he is on the next step in his uncannily captivating witch ball making. He stands and faces them, backlit by the soft, early-evening sunlight spilling in from the skylight above him. He looks _angelic_ , and Stiles doesn’t believe in that shit, but damn, he might be starting to.

That mouth purses into heart-shaped pucker that Stiles absently thinks he shouldn't find as erotic as he does when Manbun blows gently into end of the long metal rod, which he explains is a hollow a tube. The family oohs and ahhs as the glob of glass gets bigger, as he blows gentle puffs of air through the tube to thin out the glass, filling it with his breath. Once it’s about the size and shape of a softball, he moves quickly, swinging the tube with a dramatic flourish towards the bench, reshaping the malleable glass into an oblong, making the kids gasp and ahhh, the mom a little bit too, although Stiles suspects she’s just as entranced with Hot Jesus’ beauty as he is. _Get in line, lady_.

The dude is still talking, but Stiles isn’t really listening, is too distracted by his biceps, bulky in a way that should be incongruous on someone with a voice and smile so gentle, but just make him more appealing instead. He also sees that there’s a dark spray of hair peeking out from his tank top, and Stiles has to bite his lip at the discovery. _Good god, he’s a freakin’ hair farmer_ , he thinks, eyes tracing the shadows of hair he can see through the thin fabric of his shirt, a dark, thick line disappearing under the waistband of his low-slung shorts. Stiles licks his lips, swallowing hard.

Hot Jesus finishes the witch ball, explaining every step, holding it out so the kids can see the colors start to change as the glass cools, swirls of purples and blues dashed with ribbons of tiny bubbles. He tells them about annealing, that the witch ball won’t be ready for ten days, that it has to cool slowly so it won’t crack or shatter, tapping the glass off the end of the rod and, with an oven-mitted hand, placing the with ball in a large insulated wooden box. When he’s done the parents get up and start to look around the display area, the kids hovering around him to ask more questions, which he answers with more angelic patience and utterly endearing charm.

Stiles gets up to browse too, trying to shake himself free from the heady buzz of attraction. This guy is absurd, with his hippie craftsman nonsense and his cutoff shorts and Birkenstocks, and oh look, he has hairy toes like a hobbit and Stiles absolutely should not be thinking that’s adorable. He wanders through the studio towards the back and finds a doorway to another display room, smaller than the main one but lined on all sides by built-in shelves. The shelves display handblown pipes, bongs, and bubblers in every possible color combination, elegant, organic shapes, an endless rainbow array glittering with light cast by the tiny white Christmas lights weaving along the glass. Stiles whistles low. All right, fine. This guy’s reputation is well deserved, it seems.

He looks more closely at the glass, each piece a work of art, walking slowly around the room, muffled sounds of the family paying for their purchases and saying goodbye, the kids’ voices carrying as they singsong goodbyes to “magic glass man.” Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet and rubs at the back of his neck, acutely aware of the fact that he’s now alone with Sexy Hippie.

“Can I help you with anything,” that soft voice calls out, surprising Stiles even though he was hoping he would come back here.

Stiles turns, still holding the bubbler he’s inspecting, smiling when he sees the guy leaning in the doorway, arms crossed casually, looking him up and down in open appreciation that makes Stiles’ heart flutter even more. “Wedding,” Stiles blurts out, cheeks going hot and eyes going wide when Hot Jesus’ eyebrows go up in bemusement. “Wedding gift,” he sputters on. “I’m looking for a wedding gift. For my best friend.”

Hot Jesus – damn, he wishes he knew his name – uncrosses his arms and steps into the room. “Most people who come here for wedding gifts buy wineglasses or vases. For some reason pipes haven’t caught on as a popular wedding gift yet.”

“There might be happier marriages if they did,” Stiles quips, stepping closer to him, still holding the bubbler. 

The guy laughs. “I think you’re on to something. I’m Derek, by the way. Derek Hale.” His handshake is firm, his hand callused and warm, gripping Stiles’ tight, lingering much longer than necessary, making his stomach flip and flutter. This close, Stiles can see that he has just the barest hint of a widow’s peak, a shimmering black notch that gives way to that glorious mane he’s aching to get his hands in, and he’s got to be going crazy, because it takes all of his self control not to kiss it.

“I’m Stiles,” he manages to answer, aggressively not noticing how nervous he sounds. “This place is great. I’ve never seen anything like it.” _Or you_ , he barely stops himself from adding, heart jumping up into his throat.

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Stiles.” The guy – _Derek_ – says his name slow and mellow, like he’s trying to taste it.

“Is it yours?”

“Yeah, I grew up here. It was my mom’s. She taught me how to work glass.”

“Your mom teach you how to make these?” Stiles asks, holding up the bubbler. 

Derek laughs again, a truly beautiful sound. “No, those I figured out on my own.” He takes a step closer, and the room is small, and he’s very close, and there’s a skylight in here too but it’s nearly dark out now, and the room is shimmering with prismatic light and it’s beautiful and confusing because they just met and this is all feeling very, very romantic.

They’re close enough that Stiles can see his eyes clearly now, a kaleidoscope that rivals the effulgent rays of color dancing around them. They’re green, mostly, but kinda blue too, and _gold_ , if that’s even possible, and other colors too that Stiles is pretty sure words don’t exist for. “Well, uh, they look great,” he manages to sputter out, voice hoarse. “Really, really beautiful.”

Derek’s fingers brush his when he takes the piece from him. “You’re beautiful,” he says with a smile, so sincere, so _earnest_ Stiles’ stomach flips again and his mouth drops open, which seems to amuse Derek, whose smile goes even wider. Derek places the bubbler on a shelf and looks back to meet Stiles’ still-wide eyes. “I have one just like this at home. Would you like to come over and try it out?”

Stiles’ feels his eyes bulge, his cheeks going even warmer. “Oh hell yes. I mean, yeah, that…that sounds cool.” Derek smiles even wider, like he thinks it’s cute, how flustered Stiles is. “Is this a regular thing for you, then?” Stiles asks, heart still hammering. “Bringing home customers to sample the merchandise?” He’s trying very hard to sound unaffected and casual, like he couldn’t care less about the answer. Derek is...well, he’s not sure, exactly, but he feels _special_ , and whatever is happening between them feels like it could be the beginning of something, and shit, Stiles, _wants_ that.

Derek steps even closer, so close that their chests brush slightly, simmering sparks of dizzying heat unfurling in his core at the slight press and heat of Derek’s hard, warm body against is. “No, I don’t,” he whispers. “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward, but…well, you’re very compelling, Stiles.”

Derek starts to step away but Stiles recovers from his shock – _sexy manbun’d hippie thinks I’m compelling_ – and reaches out and grabs his hand, pulls him back, closer now so they’re flush against each other. “Not too forward,” Stiles breathes, voice thick and low. “Perfect amount of forward, in fact. I like all of the forward, from you, that is.” _Shut up shut up shut up you rambling fool_.

Derek’s smile is wolfish this time, still sweet like he finds Stiles’ nervous chatter endearing (and thank the gods for that, because this would never work otherwise) but also distinctly hungry. “Can I kiss you?”

He’s so close Stiles can almost feel the shape of the question against his lips, and he can barely nod an eager _yes_ before they’re on his, so very warm and soft and full and yes, they’re very _luscious_ and _pillowy_ and sinfully erotic and so much more, they’re everything, those perfect lips against his.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost chaste, tentative, like Derek knows Stiles needs time to recover from the magic of his perfect mouth. Stiles never wants to though, never wants to not feel the thrilling, buzzing heat of Derek’s _succulent_ mouth on his. He kisses him back eagerly, parting his lips in invitation, a small noise of pleasure and want escaping from the back of his throat when Derek slips his tongue into his mouth, tender and hot and sweet.

Derek’s hands are big and warm on his hips, steadying him, drawing him in as he kisses him deeper. Stiles runs his hands up those arms, slightly damp with sweat and rolling with hard muscle, shoulders rippling under his hungry hands. His beard is surprisingly soft under his fingers, and Stiles is filled with visions of Derek, between his legs, rubbing that dark scruff on the pale skin of his inner thighs.

The tendons of Derek’s neck are thick and powerful under his exploratory hands, and Stiles wants to put his teeth there, see if he can make Derek whimper in need. He holds off though, still drowning in their kiss, feverish and growing sloppier and more urgent with each swish and press of their mouths. Derek’s hands drift down to his ass, squeezing and pulling him closer, just enough to barely rub their stiff cocks together through their clothes.

Stiles finally pulls away, panting, letting his forehead fall against Derek’s, who’s also breathing hard, and smiling too. Stiles crawls his fingers up the back of Derek’s neck, into the silky-soft spray of his glorious hair. Derek closes his eyes and sighs, encouraging, and Stiles, emboldened, works his hands up farther, burying his long fingers in the luxurious depths, nestling them under the messy knot on the top of his head, gently thumbing the hard, sculpted bones of his skull. “Are you for real,” he huffs, the words tumbling out without his consent.

Derek’s impossibly gorgeous eyes flutter open, innocent and wide, thick eyebrows coming together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know…with your perfect face and your sexy hippie everything, and your smile and your talent and a body chiseled from stone and god, the way you _kiss_ , and your hot Jesus beard and hair -” Stiles sputters to a stop, flushing with embarrassment. “I’m just saying, everything about you seems just a little magically perfect, and I’m an inherently suspicious guy, especially of anything that seems too good to be true, and that pretty much sums you up, so…oh fuck, I’m going to stop ruining this with my talking now.” Stiles winces in embarrassment, preparing himself for the inevitable retraction of Derek’s invitation, now that he’s gotten a taste of unfiltered Stiles.

But Derek is still smiling, sweet and kind. “Not ruining anything,” he reassures, kissing him softly on the lips, and Stiles is again very, very glad for Derek’s arms, so big and strong and wrapped around him still, holding him up as his body goes all soft and pliant at the sincere tenderness in his voice, at the gentleness of his kiss.

 _Swooning_ , he thinks distantly, _this is what swooning feels like._

“I’m very real,” Derek says, ducking his head to rub his nose up Stiles’ neck, mouth wet on his skin, making him shiver. “Come home with me, and I’ll show you.”

**~*~**

Stiles wakes when a bright ray of early morning sun falls across his eyes, making him groan and roll into unfamiliar nest of pillows and blankets. A lump under the blanket moves and lets out an irritated-sounding meow before a small white face emerges next to him, yellow eyes narrow and glaring. The cat – Hermione, he remembers from his introduction to all of Derek’s many pets last night – seems to be his only bedmate, and she gives him a final look of disgust before leaping off the bed and out the open French doors of the bedroom.

Derek appears in the doorway then, an absolute vision, naked, hair loose and wild around his shoulders, another cat, the black and white one named Luna cradled in the crook of one arm, a steaming mug of coffee in his other hand. “Good morning,” he smiles, coming to sit on the bed.

Stiles pushes himself up, letting the blankets fall away from his own naked body, delightfully tender from Derek’s eager attentions, skin beard-burned and lightly hickied. He gratefully accepts the mug, wrapping his hands around it and sipping at the rich dark coffee. “Thank you,” he murmurs, furtively looking down Derek’s chest, eyes resting on the rough-edged spots of red he left on his skin. Luna darts from his arms and plops lightly onto Stiles’ lap, whiskering at his fingers before jumping away when Stiles reaches over to set his coffee down on the nightstand.

“I want to take you out to breakfast,” Derek says, reaching up to gather his gorgeous locks in his hands, an elastic band around his wrist. “And then I want to bring you back to bed and spend the day kissing you and making you come and listening to more of your stories.”

Stiles grins – damn, being around Derek makes his face _hurt_ with all the smiling – and climbs into his lap, straddling his strong thighs in an echo of one of their many entanglements from last night. “Let me,” he mumbles, delving his hands into the now-familiar cascade of silken waves, vividly remembering how astonishingly soft it had felt flowing across his chest, down low on his belly, across the curve of his ass.

Derek smiles up at him from under his pretty dark lashes, eyebrows arched in amusement, like he knows that Stiles has no idea what he’s doing but thinks it’s sweet that he’s trying. It’s tougher than it looks, taming that wild mane. Stiles furrows his brow in concentration, biting at his bottom lip, finally pulling the band from Derek’s wrist and twisting it around the messy knot in a terrible approximation of the twisting trickery move he's seen Lydia and Kira do countless times. It doesn’t look very secure, and there’s a big chunk in the back that he missed, and it kinda falls to the side as soon as he takes his hands away, settling them on Derek's shoulders.

“I’m not very good at manbunning,” he sighs, admitting defeat. Derek laughs, eyes sparkling. He nuzzles his beard into Stiles’ neck, mouthing at the hinge of his jaw, trailing his lips across his cheek until he finally finds his mouth, kissing him slow and sweet, sparking shivers of need and something he wants to call _bliss_.

“You’ll learn,” Derek murmurs, drifting out of the kiss and tumbling, completely, into his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [deleted-scenes](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/) on the Tumbles. Come hang out and have meltdowns over fictional characters and the beautiful people who play them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vegetarian Werewolf Derek Hale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215141) by [Loslote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loslote/pseuds/Loslote)




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